t this same holy Saint
Dunstan taught thee a goodly song or two?"

"Why, as for that," quoth Little John, grinning, "mayhap he hath lent me
aid to learn a ditty or so."

"Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee," quoth the Tinker.

At this Little John cleared his throat and, after a word or two about a
certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus:

"_Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go?
I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also,
And we'll gather the rose
As it sweetly blows,
For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing_."

Now it seemed as though Little John's songs were never to get sung, for
he had got no farther than this when the door of the inn opened and out
came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the landlord following them,
and, as the saying is, washing his hands with humble soap. But when the
brothers of Fountain Abbey saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad
in the robes of a Gray Friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little
Brother drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the
thin Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in his
mouth. Then, as Little John gathered his breath for a new verse, "How,
now," roared forth the fat Brother, his voice coming from him like loud
thunder from a little cloud, "thou naughty fellow, is this a fit place
for one in thy garb to tipple and sing profane songs?"

"Nay," quoth Little John, "sin' I cannot tipple and sing, like Your
Worship's reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must
e'en tipple and sing where I can."

"Now, out upon thee," cried the tall lean Brother in a harsh voice,
"now, out upon thee, that thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this
talk and bearing."

"Marry, come up!" quoth Little John. "Disgrace, sayest thou? Methinks
it is more disgrace for one of our garb to wring hard-earned farthings
out of the gripe of poor lean peasants. It is not so, brother?"

At this the Tinker and the Peddler and the Beggar nudged one another,
and all grinned, and the friars scowled blackly at Little John; but they
could think of nothing further to say, so they turned to their horses.
Then Little John arose of a sudden from the bench where he sat, and ran
to where the brothers of Fountain Abbey were mounting. Quoth he, "Let me
hold your horses' bridles for you. Truly, your words have smitten my
sinful heart, so that I will abide no longer in this den of evil, but
will go f